Becoming Jane
by Cafinatedangel13
Summary: One second was all she needed.


**Becoming Jane**

Firstly, yes I stole the title from the movie. I added it during first-edition edits because I found it amusing, and it just kinda stuck.

Secondly, I've noticed in several stories by different people Alec and Jane are referred to as twins, but I don't recall seeing that in the book. Can somebody clear that up for me? In any case, they are not related here.

Also, I'm not certain about Jane's age, what region or time period she is originally from. I based the setting on the Chalk of Terry Prattchet's Tiffany Aching series, which is somewhat like the early countryside of England but could be any generic valley area. In addition, I have also based Jane's character heavily on Tiffany Aching herself, including the role of a practical shepherdess. I think that should clear up any obvious confusion, but if I've missed something, just let me know.

Anyway, thank you for the contribution of the next two or three minuets of your life. 

She wasn't very intimidating, she knew. Her tiny frame was encompassed in an air of innocence and vulnerability. She was light, and soft, and golden with long, pale brown

(_Almond, Mama always called it)_

hair that trailed out behind her, dancing with the crisp mountain breeze when she wore it loose. But she was one of twelve brothers and sisters, not counting Thomas and Aaron, both of whom had moved from the farm to the blacksmith's forge before her own skills had evolved much further than walking; she'd had to have _some _defenses.

Of course her tiny arms and wispy legs had been hardened over years of work, for there was so much to do and not a hand could be spared, but she was small and willowy, lovely but soft. To be taken seriously among the stocky townsfolk and her own rowdy brothers, she'd had to learn another tactic: the art of mental warfare.

She'd learned early on that threats and even physical prowess did not count for much in the grand scheme of things. Surprisingly enough, there was very little stock found in appearances and real physical ability; the kind that people could touch and smell and see. The secret was a projection of confidence, of being so completely sure of herself that those around her couldn't help but be sure of her too.

It was in the ever-so-slight tilt of her head and the way her arms crossed themselves over her chest or rested accusingly on her hips. In the way her feet planted themselves firmly beneath her, anchored to the ground and the almost nonexistent frown that hovered above her set jaw. In the bright flash of her green eyes, narrowed to slits as she stared you down through her dark lashes.

She made herself seem so…_capable_ that for one second you _believed_…

Only a second, but one second was all she needed.

It wasn't really anything special, just a trick she could make the mind play on itself. Anyone could do it; smoke and mirrors, like the magicians that traveled through the mountains in the spring and performed in the village square. Smoke and mirrors…just give them a show.

It was the smell that got her first, sharp and tangy, salty-sweet; a smell one learned well on a farm when the sheep are lambing and such tiny, elfin hands are so much more useful than the thick, calloused hands of the surrounding population. Blood.

Her face drained of it as her mind rummaged up a disturbing image of just how much blood would have to be lying around uncontained for her to be able to smell it through the front door, and quickly followed it with equally disturbing images of all the ways that that much blood could be spilled. For a moment she considered simply returning to the field she had been tending and turning the already-broken soil again, not leaving it until someone, anyone, found her. That thought, however, was instantly killed; returning to the field would serve no purpose.

The sight that greeted her when she opened the door was not among the images she'd assaulted herself with, but that was only because her mind hadn't been able to drudge up anything as horrible, or beautiful as this.

There were two, both pale and smooth as the tiny white river-stones she'd collected and presented to her baby sister

(_Lying still as death by the stairs_)

just hours before, rounded and polished by the gentle caress and furious force of the river. Both were tall and lean, muscled and beautiful like the statues of angels that adorned the church that sat in the nearby town. But real angels would never be speckled all over with flecks of her family's blood.

The walls were splattered red, stained forever with dark garnet splotches. Liquid so red it was almost black pooled together all over the old wooden floor, she could hear it dripping from the banister on the stairway, see it running in miniature streams down the walls, across the floor. It sprinkled down in some places in a soft pitter-patter that could have passed for rain.

And the…They were…The damn…_things_ were _licking _the floor!

She couldn't watch anymore; the calm that given her power over the years was broken. A feral cry escaped her throat as she ran forward, swinging the familiar weight of her cast iron shovel, her whole body wincing as it made contact with…something. There should have been a sickening crunching sound as the tick, heavy metal slammed into the skull of the creature hunched over the still form of her mother, lapping up the crimson liquid still pouring from her pale body. There wasn't.

It sounded more like the unearthly CLANG of her shovel hitting the solid granite that formed in strips beneath the mountains. The creature turned its attention to her, its dirty red eyes void of anything human or rational. It lunged, but she was faster than it had thought, dodging back just as she'd always done in the spring when the rams were most aggressive. Unfortunately it was faster than a ram.

She felt its teeth pierce her flesh all the way to the bone and she saw stars. The pain was indescribable, and while her mind was lost amid the burning sensation of molten rock being forced through her veins, her survival instinct flared up and her body acted on its own. Her arm tore itself from the creature's mouth,

(_Unaware of the chunk of flesh it left behind_)

as her legs propelled her out of the house she'd been born in, away from her beloved farm, away from the torn and mangled remains of her beautiful family,

(_Twelve brothers and sisters, Mama and Daddy, all lifeless and pale lying on the floor_)

into the damp, dark forest where the sheep would hide when they ran from the flock.

But the pain was intense, unbearable. Her legs fought a losing battle with the fiery, prickling sensation that started where the creature's teeth had buried themselves in her arm and quickly spread through her veins like it had bonded to the blood that coursed through her body. She stumbled and fell, tumbling head over heels down a crumbling hill, the wet dirt and twigs sticking to her pale skin and long hair.

_Why didn't they follow me? _Her poor, hazy mind wondered in a weak and failed attempt to distract herself from the pain. But she understood the minds of predators; she had to in order to keep her flock safe. The image of that…_thing_ eagerly lapping up her mother's blood from the floor danced across her vision, taunting her, mocking her pain. Why should they go after one tiny farm girl when there was so much food they wouldn't have to chase?

She couldn't even hold onto that answer. The pain of seeing her family sprawled across the floor, all staring unseeingly at the ceiling, wall, or each other, was no longer enough to block out the physical pain coursing through every limb, every organ, even her pretty hair hurt. It felt like one hundred million red-

(_No, Aaron said white is the breaking-point, not red_)

hot needles were being shoved into her every inch of her poor, broken body again and again.

Why did everything hurt so badly? She'd only gotten that one bite…

The memory of those blood-red eyes, lifeless but eager, animalistic, feral, as those shinny white teeth embedded themselves in her soft, pale skin broke through the fog of pain, and one final rational thought slid across her slowly warping mind.

A rattle snake. The pretty diamond pattern painted in black on its earth colored skin disappearing into the tight coils it had curled itself into, hidden under a stone big enough to sit on. Those dark, unfeeling eyes set well above two huge venom-filled fangs…

She wanted to scream and sob and never, never stop. But she was a farmer's daughter. She didn't scream, and she didn't cry…

They hadn't gone far.

(_Predators never do_)

She wasn't intimidating, she knew. She was light, and soft, and golden. She had a tiny frame and long, shiny almond-colored hair that danced with the gentle mountain breeze when she wore it loose and framed her sweet face, childlike and angelic. The picture of innocents.

But it wasn't about physical ability; it was in the toss of her head and the way her arms rested lightly, eagerly on her hips. It was the set of her feet planted firmly on the ground and the eerie smile curled into her lips that told them she was going to enjoy this. It was in the flash of her new red

(_Stained, just like the walls_)

eyes as she stared them down from under her thick, dark lashes. For one second they _believed_.

One second was all she needed. 

-a smell one learned well on a farm when the sheep are lambing and such tiny, elfin hands are so much more useful than the thick, calloused hands of the surrounding population.

-More or less taken directly from _Wintersmith_ by Terry Prattechet

One last note: it's generally accepted, in my house at least, that Jane must have originally possessed some talent or enjoyment for causing pain. But according to Alice, isn't her power basically thought manipulation?

Criticism is expected and accepted provided it's constructive. Help me grow people!


End file.
